


The 13th Moon

by dreamsofdramione, granger_danger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hot Gardener Neville, Mutual Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Slow Burn, Symbolic Trees
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofdramione/pseuds/dreamsofdramione, https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger/pseuds/granger_danger
Summary: It wasn’t until Pansy was watching the owl wing away that she felt a seed of doubt growing in her stomach. “Fuck,” she muttered to herself, pressing her palms into her eyes and further decimating her already destroyed mascara.But it was just Longbottom, after all, harmless in literally every way.So what harm could it do?
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 45
Kudos: 139
Collections: want to read





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PacificRimbaud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud/gifts).



> Happy birthday to our brilliant friend [PacificRimbaud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud/pseuds/PacificRimbaud)! We wrote you a collaborative Panville fic because we adore you, and we accidentally made it about mortality because we are the worst. 😅😬😆
> 
> We alternated chapters and POVs - [granger_danger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger) wrote Chapter 1/Pansy's POV, and [dreamsofdramione](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugggghead/pseuds/dreamsofdramione) wrote Chapter 2/Neville's POV. This story will have two more chapters and (maybe? possibly? undetermined!) an epilogue. We will add any relevant tags as we add more chapters. 
> 
> We also dropped in some small nods to PacificRimbaud's work here and there!

* * *

**Winter, 2008-2009**

Parkinson Manor had certainly seen better days.

Deep ivy clung to the stone on the west wing. The grounds were thick with leafy debris, long decaying. The stairs to the once grand entrance were beginning to sag. 

“Why, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter returned. Shall I announce you?” The stone gargoyle door knocker arched a heavy brow, his voice dripping venomous irony. 

“Oh, fuck off.” Pansy was still wearing her black funeral robes, clutching her valise in one hand, and she did not need this shit. She flicked her wand, casting the specific wards and enchantments required to grant the youngest heir entrance. 

The last of her line.

And now, the last living Parkinson. 

But perhaps some things ended because they ought. 

Pansy had already dispelled the doxies and sent the last doddering house elf, the aptly named Grimm, up to prepare her a room — any room other than the noxiously nostalgic pastel pink swamp that had been her childhood prison. She had cast the requisite cleaning spells over the parlour and muted the ancestral portraits before she reached the Solarium.  
  
The shrivelfig was dead, of course. Through the glass panes, streaked with rain, Pansy glimpsed the true degree of dishevelment of the once grand grounds. She blew out a dispirited breath. 

Selling this place was going to be enough of a chore, given that no one wanted to touch Death Eater property. Putting it on the Muggle market was an option, but even then it would have to be pristine to pass muster, not to mention that it would require months of meticulous work from a professional Curse-Breaker. She could handle most of the internal repairs and decor, but the grounds were hopeless. 

As an aura of despair settled around her, she sunk into a dusty tufted velvet armchair. Her mother’s bad mood, perpetual and palpable, seemed to linger in the air of the house, even from beyond the grave. 

Pansy summoned parchment and a quill and dashed off the note before she could think too much about it. 

It wasn’t until she was watching the owl wing away that she felt a seed of doubt growing in her stomach. “Fuck,” she muttered to herself, pressing her palms into her eyes and further decimating her already destroyed mascara. 

But it was just Longbottom, after all, harmless in literally every way. 

So what harm could it do? 

* * *

“I can start over winter hols.” Neville was standing amiably in a woolen Fair Isle jumper, his hands tucked in his pockets as he surveyed the south lawn. He still seemed to lean and list a bit in the way of the too-tall, as though worried he might knock his head against the sky, but otherwise he was a different man than she remembered: he made being himself look easy. “Not much you can plant right now, but I can get started clearing out debris and preparing for spring.” 

It had been utter idiocy for her to ask someone who already had a full-time job as a professor, someone she had in fact bullied as a child, to care for the grounds. 

Though he hadn’t said no.

“That’s fine,” Pansy said evenly. “Perhaps we could come to an amount for an initial lump sum of Galleons, followed by a weekly upkeep stipend.”

Neville’s face, more handsome than it had any right to be, faltered and he stood there gaping for a moment before he managed to regain control of his jaw. “I can’t accept payment for this.” 

Pansy blinked, pressing her lips into a thin, bitter line. “I don’t accept pity, Longbottom. What could possibly be in it for you?” 

Neville sighed. He didn’t look cowed or nervous as she’d expected; he just looked tired. He ran a hand through his sandy hair and met her eyes. “Not everything is a _quid pro quo,_ Pansy.” He shook his head, almost fondly. Pansy felt a surge of angry bile rise at the subtextual implication that there were things she just didn’t understand. He shrugged, shooting her a smile. “I like a challenge and I don’t need the money. Are you on for it or not?” 

It was no secret in wizarding society that the debts of her parents’ reparations were falling on her after their death. Getting the property turned around and sold was really the only way she could ever hope to break even. The sooner it was done, the sooner she could get back to her cramped studio in New York City and get on with her life, such as it was. 

Pansy groaned. “Fine, I’m on.” As they shook on it, his warm, firm hand engulfed hers. If she lingered a bit longer than necessary, it was from the shock of contact, both pleasant and unwelcome. 

When was the last time, after all, that anyone had touched her? 

* * *

At least three rooms of the manor were fully habitable by the time Neville reappeared. Pansy stirred a cube of sugar into her tea as she observed him from the Solarium, the collar of his wool cloak turned up against the bitter rain. She watched the way his broad shoulders twitched, even under the layers, as he raked up the detritus. 

She fixed a cup of tea for him, and left it, under a warming spell, on the worktop. 

* * *

He finished late one night; it was full dark and pissing down rain. He hunched in a chair in the kitchen, tucking into a plate Grimm had heated for him. 

“There’s a guest room,” Pansy said, “at the end of the hall. If you’d rather not travel back this late.”

“Thanks.” He sounded relieved, but she had already turned, hoping he hadn’t caught the pink on her cheeks. She swept away in her long robes, as though she could not feel his eyes hot on her back. 

From her bare room a floor above him, she stared, awake, dead ahead into the dark, pretending that it did not feel different, perhaps even thrilling, to know someone else was there in the house. 

* * *

“I want to show you something,” Neville said on the last day before Hogwarts started up again. 

Longbottom was a bit of an oaf but she didn’t relish being alone all of the time in this mausoleum again. 

He led her out to the banks of the creek. A small elder tree stood braced there, a new addition to the view from across the grounds.

“I know I said I couldn’t do much until spring, but this felt important.” Curse his low, gentle voice and his stupid, sincere face. Blast his kindness, which she did not deserve and had never asked for. 

Pansy had something in her eye. 

Neville regarded her cautiously, scratching at his neck. “In addition to having magical protective qualities, it’s a really symbolic tree —”

“I know what it means.” Pansy bit out. She had been terse on purpose, but Neville still rested a careful hand between her shoulder blades. 

The tree’s spindly branches tossed in a cold wind. Death and rebirth. Grief and healing. Rather against her own will, she leaned back into his hand. In the furthest reaches of her heart, a mighty dam began to crumble. 

“I hope I didn’t overstep.” Neville looked at her so searchingly that she turned her face away.

“No, it’s fine.” It was more than fine. It was perfect.

And Pansy had not asked for it. 

As soon as he was gone, she knelt on the cold stone floor of the Solarium and wept for the first time since her mother had died. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Spring 2009**

Starting over was a privilege afforded to very few. Unlike the grounds before him, that now bore next to no resemblance to the mess they’d been just months ago, people couldn’t simply strip away the evidence of their experiences and turn the soil of their past with the seasons.

For the rest of his life, Neville Longbottom would always be labeled a war hero. Never again would his name be printed alongside any other moniker. His claim to fame, as it were, despite his reluctance to call it anything of the sort, was the result of bravery only a child could possess with such vigor. In the published accounts of the war efforts, he was nothing more than a footnote in someone else’s story. 

But things like that had never bothered Neville. 

He’d lived largely outside of the public eye ever since. Surrounded by more plants than people, he felt safe within the confines of the castle that’d served as his home for over two decades. Neville wasn’t the kind of person who wanted cameras flashing every time he left a venue, he didn’t care to have his dating life splashed across the society pages, and he definitely didn’t want those two weighted words to characterize him before so many others that felt like they fit infinitely better with the image he held of himself. 

He’d been called good or nice or gentle for most of his life, summing up to an overall unassuming nature. As he grew into himself, words like fit and strong were sometimes whispered, too. He didn’t so much mind them, nor the attention of the occasional attractive witch, but very few people saw beyond the soft sum of his parts. 

But being alone suited Neville. There was a simplicity in solitude that he deeply appreciated. 

In the veritable puzzle of his life, he’d always possessed certain pieces that seemed to fit in the edges of other people’s lives with little effort. If nothing else, he found himself relatable to anyone in need of a shoulder to cry on or an ear to bend. And that’s where he felt most comfortable, on the outskirts of those lives really lived, the seasonal visitor who spent their whole visit catching up on the highlights of the months habitually missed.

Pushing his hands deeper in the rich soil to test if the moisture charms he’d set up held through the last cold snap, Neville thought about what he’d said to Pansy at the very beginning of all this. He  _ did  _ enjoy challenges, and opportunities to create something from scratch the same magnitude as the Parkinson project were few and far between. 

Typically, Neville’s life after the Final Battle was nothing if not predictable. He’d settled into his career and faded into the background with ease. But reminders of the war lingered on in ways he’d never expected. The echo of a student’s screech in Hogwarts’ hallowed halls occasionally stopped him in his tracks. Sometimes he’d swear he could even still smell the whispers of smoke on an errant wisp of wind. And he’d held steady to an unwavering ability to detect when someone was watching him.

With dirt caked between his fingers, and beads of sweat trickling down his temple, he felt the unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze. Lifting a lazy arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead, Neville turned towards the massive estate in one fluid motion. 

For a single split second, Pansy Parkinson stood still, framed by trails of overgrown ivy climbing the trusses of the Solarium. Just as quickly as he’d looked, Neville turned back to the task at hand, digging deeper and continuing his quest to turn the soil in preparation for spring’s fresh start. 

* * *

“Well, at the castle we grow potion ingredients and things the students will study.” Neville rubbed the back of his neck. “I imagine here you’re looking for something more… decorative.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you plant, Longbottom.” Pansy’s voice was still sharp, but exasperation rounded the edge in a way he’d come to understand. “Just make it look alive.”

Slants of the sunset’s rays streamed through the Solarium’s giant panes of glass, draping the potted plants he’d brought to show her with stripes of dying light. He stared at her for a beat too long, watching the way the orange and pink hues tinted her features with the muted glow of the setting sun. 

“Take a look at—”

“Isn’t that supposed to be your job?” Even with her perfectly shaped brow quirked high, she still looked softer than he remembered. “You pick the plants, I provide the tea.”

Neville couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped past his lips. “Works for me.”

* * *

Sipping his now customary cup of tea in the solitude of the Solarium, Neville looked out over the lawns.

Late winter ebbed into early spring with little fanfare. The soil was softer and the debris was cleared. The grounds, for the first time, looked entirely bare. The years of neglect had been wiped away over the last few months, hauled off and vanished as though that chapter of the estate’s life had never happened. Even the lines of ivy that had embraced the old house were thinned to nothing more than an aesthetic effect. 

“It’s the first day of spring hols. Shouldn’t you be back at the castle preparing lesson plans or coddling your plants or something?”

There was no bark or bite in her words, and Neville felt her presence before he even heard her. He turned to find Pansy leaning against the doorframe with the same effortless sense of nonchalance that was so undoubtedly her. 

“The plants are fine, but thank you for the concern.” The corner of his lips lifted in a lopsided smile. “I figured I’d use the extra time to get the rose bushes in the ground and acclimated to their new home.”

“Suit yourself.”

* * *

“They’re called spring showers for a reason, Longbottom. You, of all people, should know that.” 

Neville shook his head, a mess of droplets spraying in every direction. “A little rain never hurt anyone.” 

Pansy tossed him a towel and tapped her foot against the stone floor of the Solarium. He couldn’t hear the click of her heel over the pounding rain he’d only just escaped, but he could see the familiar motion and knew exactly what it would sound like if he were closer to her. 

Turning back towards the house, she shouted over her shoulder, “Don’t you dare step foot on the restored hardwoods until you’ve vanished every last drop of water.”

Neville rubbed the towel over his sopping mess of hair. His wand wasn’t far, but much like gardening, he found a certain sense of comfort in the simplicity of doing some things the Muggle way.

When he’d finally dried off enough to enter the house, he was struck by how different it looked since the last time he’d been inside. Where dark corners and peeling wallpaper had once lived, the walls and trim now wore a fresh coat of paint. The floors shined bright enough for him to see his reflection. Light streamed in from the windows in the rooms with their doors open wide. If he didn’t know any better, he might have thought Pansy had staged the house for no other purpose than to simply be appreciated in all of its glory. 

He found her a short while later, tucked into a tufted velvet armchair with two cups of steaming tea in front of her. 

She didn’t even look up when he walked into the room. “The storm doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.”

Sitting in the chair opposite the table, he looked out the window, watching droplets dance in haphazard lines streaking the pane of glass. “No. It doesn’t appear so.”

“And the Floo isn’t working yet, either.” Pansy flipped a page, never letting her eyes stray from the book in her lap. 

Neville hummed. “That’s a shame.” 

Despite his best efforts to peek at the cover, he couldn’t decipher the title of whatever book held her steadfast attention.

“The guest room is prepared.” Pansy snapped the cover shut and stood up, looking at him for the first time since he’d stepped foot in the room. “You know where it is. Let Grimm know if you need anything.”

* * *

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Pansy jumped, just an inch, before narrowing her eyes in Neville’s direction. “And why not? This is my house after all, you’re just an overnight guest. Proper decorum states you shouldn’t wander around strange manors in the middle of the night, Longbottom.”

Neville shrugged, padding softly into the kitchen. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

He stopped just short of where Pansy was sitting. There on the table, next to a pot of hot water and a few cubes of sugar, was a second cup that appeared to be either under a stasis charm or freshly brewed—he wasn't even sure which was more thoughtful. 

Pansy must have noticed him eyeing the cup because with a flick of her wrist, it slid down the table towards him. She picked up her own cup of tea, blowing on the steaming liquid before looking over at him. “Seems we have something in common.”

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this creation.


End file.
